Bernard nodded in approval. “Good. Remember that furycrafting is no substitute for intelligence, Tavi.”
“And intelligence is no substitute for a fury,” Tavi muttered sourly. He kicked at the ground, scuffing up a small cloud of dust and dried, dead grasses.
Bernard laid a heavy hand on Tavi’s shoulder, squeezed, and then started walking north, down the old lane worn by the passage of carts and draft animals and feet. “It’s not as bad as you think, Tavi. Furies aren’t everything.”
“Says the man with two of them,” Tavi said, following him. “Aunt Isana says you could challenge for full Citizenship if you wanted to.”
Bernard shrugged. “If I wanted to, perhaps. But I didn’t come into my furies until I was almost your age.”
“But you were a slow bloomer,” Tavi said. “I’m way past that. No one’s ever been my age and furyless.”
Bernard sighed. “You don’t know that, Tavi. Relax, boy. It will come to you in time.”
“That’s what you’ve told me since I was ten. If I’d had furies of my own, I could have stopped Dodger and still . . .” He choked down his anger before he could blurt out the words.
Uncle Bernard glanced back at Tavi, smiling with only his eyes. “Come on, lad. Let’s pick up the pace. I need to be back before the other Steadholders arrive.”
Tavi nodded, and they broke into a mile-eating lope down the winding lane. The sky began to lighten as they passed the apple orchards, the beehives, and then the northern fields laid fallow for a season. The lane wound through a forest of mostly oak and maple, where most of the trees were so ancient that only the most meager grass and brush could grow beneath them. By the time the predawn pale blue had given way to the first tints of orange and yellow, they had reached the last stretch of woods before leaving the lands of Bernardholt. There the forest was not so old, and smaller trees and brush, some of it still living despite the lateness of the season, stood thick and heavy. Golden and scarlet leaves covered the dried skeletons of the smaller brush, and the naked, sleeping trees swayed in a chorus of gentle creaking.
And then something in his surroundings brought an odd kind of pressure to Tavi’s senses. He stopped and let out a short, warning hiss of breath. From a full jog, Bernard abruptly dropped to a crouch, and Tavi instinctively followed suit.
Bernard looked silently back at Tavi, cocking an eyebrow in a silent question.
Tavi stayed on all fours and crawled up beside his uncle. He kept his voice to a whisper between panting breaths and said, “Up ahead, in that last stand of trees by the brook. There’s usually a covey of quail there, but I saw them heading along the lane.”
“You think something spooked them out,” Bernard said. He murmured, “Cyprus,” and flicked his right hand toward the trees beside him in a signal to the lesser of his two furies. Tavi looked up and saw a shape glide down from one of the trees — vaguely humanoid and no larger than a child. It turned pale green eyes toward Bernard for a moment, crouching down like an animal. Leaves and twigs seemed to writhe together to cover whatever shape lay beneath them. Cyprus tilted its head to one side, focusing on Bernard, and then made a sound like wind rustling through the leaves and vanished into the brush.
Tavi was winded from the run and struggled to slow his breathing. “What is it?” he whispered.
Bernard’s eyes slipped out of focus for a moment before he answered. “You were right. Well done, boy. There’s someone hiding near the footbridge. They’ve got a strong fury with them.”
“Bandits?” Tavi whispered.
His uncle’s eyes narrowed. “It’s Kord.”
Tavi frowned. “I thought the other Steadholders were supposed to be arriving later today. And why would they be hiding in the trees?”
Bernard grunted, rising. “Let’s go find out.”
Tavi followed his uncle on down the road. Bernard walked with quiet purpose toward the causeway, as if he had every intention of traveling past the hidden men. Then, without warning, he spun to his left, arrow in hand, drew back the bow and loosed a grey-feathered shaft at a clump of bushes and detritus a few paces from the near side of the small, stone footbridge that crossed a murmuring brook.
Tavi heard a scream, and the leaves and bushes thrashed wildly. A moment later a boy about Tavi’s age emerged from the bushes, one hand clenched upon the seat of his breeches. He had a broad, strong build and a face that would be handsome if it had been less petulant. Bittan, of Kordholt, Kord’s youngest son. “Bloody crows!” the boy howled. “Are you insane?”
“Bittan?” called Bernard in obviously feigned surprise. “Oh dear. I had no idea that was you back there.”
From further down the trail, a second young man rose out of hiding—Kord’s eldest son, Aric. He was leaner than his brother, taller, and several years older. He wore his hair pulled back into a tail, and pensive frown lines had already established themselves between his eyebrows. He watched Bernard warily and called, “Bittan? You all right?”
The boy screamed, furious, “No I’m not all right! I’m shot!”
Tavi peered at the other boy and muttered to his uncle, “You shot him?”
“Just grazed him.”
Tavi grinned. “Maybe you hit him in the brain.”
Bernard smiled a wolfish smile and said nothing.
From still further back in the brush, leaves crackled and dead wood snapped. A moment later, Steadholder Kord emerged from the bracken. He wasn’t terribly tall, but his shoulders seemed too large for him, and his brawny arms looked unnaturally long. Kord wore a patched and faded grey tunic, badly in need of a thorough washing, and heavy gargant-hide leggings. He wore his symbol of office, the heavy chain of a Steadholder around his neck. The chain was smudged and looked greasy, but Tavi supposed that it made a better match for his unkempt greying hair and patchy beard.
Kord moved with an aggressive tension, and his eyes were cold with anger. “What the crows do you think you’re doing, Bernard?”
Bernard waved a friendly hand at Kord, but Tavi noted that he held an arrow along with the bow in his other. “Little accident,” he said. “I mistook your boy there for some kind of robber lurking by the road to attack travelers.”
Kord’s eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Of course not,” Bernard drawled, his smile not touching his eyes. “This is just a misunderstanding. Thank the great furies no one got hurt.” He paused for a moment, his smile vanishing before he said, quietly, “I’d hate to have someone get hurt on my land.”
Kord snarled, a sound more bestial than human, and rolled forward a furious step. The ground under his feet rumbled and quivered, restless little hummocks rising and falling as though some kind of serpent slithered about just beneath the surface.
Bernard faced Kord without looking away, stirring, or changing his expression.
Kord growled again, and with a visible effort choked back his anger. “One of these days I’m going to get upset with you, Bernard.”